Spectator Sport
by Neena Varscona
Summary: Sequel to 'The Hidden Truth About Stethoscopes'.  Chase discovers that there's more to watch at a hockey game than just the hockey. Warning. House Wilson slash.


Pairing: House/Wilson

Disclaimer: House and the world he lives in don't belong to me. Really wish they did.

Setting: Season 2, after "Sex Kills"

A/N: Sequel to "The Hidden Truth about Stethoscopes".

* * *

Foreman entered the conference room waving two tickets in the air and smiling triumphantly. "Row six, centre ice," he proclaimed. "Scored two tickets for tonight's game from our new drug rep. Any takers?"

"Hockey?" asked Cameron, her face screwed up in distaste. "Grown men strapping on skates so they can legally beat the crap out of each other in front of a bunch of blood-thirsty spectators?"

"Gee, Cameron—tell us how you really feel," said House, snapping his yo-yo at her and back into the palm of his hand in the most annoying way he could think of.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," said Foreman. "Wilson, you like hockey, don't you?"

Wilson looked up from the notes he'd been studying and cast a quick glance in House's direction before answering. "I love it," he said. "But I, uh…have other plans for tonight."

"House?" asked Foreman, more of politeness than a desire to spend an entire evening sitting next to his boss.

"Can't. Hot date," said House. "And that leaves Chase." All eyes turned to the blond intensivist.

Chase's face lit up in a genuine smile. "That'd be great! I've never been to a hockey game before. Can I get one of those big Styrofoam fingers?"

Foreman rolled his eyes as any chance of a dignified evening flew out the window. Still, it could have been worse. At least Chase had a basic understanding of personal boundaries…and with any luck, Foreman planned to leave the game with someone a lot prettier than Chase, anyway.

Everyone settled into their seats as House took control of the whiteboard, but even though he was ready to start talking, not everyone in the room was ready to start listening.

"_You_ have a hot date?" asked Cameron, using the rebuke to hide her real fear that such a thing might be possible.

House paused from writing on the board and addressed her over his shoulder. "For the really good hookers you have to book in advance." This got a grunt of disgust out of Cameron and a purse-lipped glare out of Wilson. But he got no reaction at all out of Foreman and Chase, and he decided he'd have to spice up his routine a little in future.

Wilson hung around after House had dispatched the troops. House deliberately ignored him, pretending he hadn't noticed the 'we need to talk' look on Wilson's face.

"Hooker?" said Wilson indignantly. "You're comparing me to a hooker?"

"A really _good_ hooker," said House. "It's a compliment."

"Oh well, then. Thank-you," Wilson replied sarcastically.

"Don't mention it."

Wilson sighed a tiny little sigh and headed for the door, pausing when he got there. "So…what exactly _are_ we doing tonight?" he asked.

"Hockey game," said House.

"I thought you said you had something special planned."

House's blue eyes sparkled dangerously. "Trust me—it'll be special.

* * *

"Okay, I admit it—this is nice," said Wilson as he entered the VIP box at the stadium. The roar of the crowd was somewhat muted by the window that separated them from the pathetic riff-raff below. It was like a hotel suite without the bed. There was a kitchenette, a dining table with complimentary fruit basket, and a row of cushy leather seats lined up along the window. The best view in the house.

"Who did you have to kill to get these seats?" asked Wilson, clearly awe-struck as he took in the view from their window. He felt like a god looking down at a vast gathering of minions, come to bid them homage.

"You mean, 'who did I have to _save_?'" said House. "Senator Quinn was feeling very generous after getting his daughter out of the hospital in a limo instead of a coffin."

"This is the Senator's private box?" asked Wilson, impressed.

"Yup. And you're gonna help me decorate it," said House. He shrugged the backpack off his shoulder and dug around inside. He pulled out a large white bed sheet with the words 'Go Devils' painted across it in large red letters. It was rumpled and frayed, and it looked like a preschooler had written on it. The Senator would have a bird if he found out how they were about to deface his property. And for some reason, that thought made Wilson happy.

House tossed him the sheet and a roll of black electrical tape, and then he grabbed a chair from the dining table and dragged it over to the door, propping it under the doorknob so no one would be able to get in. Wilson raised an eyebrow at him.

"Hate room service," said House by way of explanation.

Wilson took one end of the sheet and proceeded to tape it to the window.

"Higher," said House, directing him from one of the comfy leather chairs. Wilson obligingly raised the sheet a couple of inches higher. "A little more… a little higher… a little bit higher…"

"Any higher and we won't be able to see the game," said Wilson.

"We will if we stand."

Wilson shook his head but raised the sheet as directed anyway. By the time House gave his approval, the sheet was just below chest level and there was no way they'd be able to watch the game sitting down.

"Care to tell me why we're sitting in the most expensive seats in the house and you've decided to block the view?" asked Wilson.

"Number thirty-three on my list of things I want to do before I die," said House, straight-faced.

"Number thirty-three," said Wilson, searching his memory. "Isn't that 'pulling off the perfect jewel heist'?"

"No. That's number _twenty_-three."

"Right! And twenty-four was 'breaking out of a high-security federal prison'," said Wilson, smiling as he remembered the ridiculous list House had been compiling over the last few years. "So, let's see then…thirty-three…thirty-three…" Wilson's eyes bugged out of his head and he gawped at House in complete disbelief. "You can't be serious!"

"Wanna bet?" asked House with a 'cat that just ate the canary' grin on his face.

"There are over a thousand people out there—not to mention TV cameras," said Wilson. "If we get caught…"

"Hence the big-ass 'Go Devils' banner and the chair under the doorknob,' said House.

Wilson burst out laughing, partly because it was the most ludicrous and immature thing House had ever suggested, and partly because some part of him found the idea so exciting that he almost didn't care about the possible consequences.

"Should I be offended?" asked House as Wilson's chuckling died down.

"The Senator is gonna kill us if he finds out," said Wilson, still grinning.

House's lips twitched up in an answering smile. "I'm willing to take that chance."

Wilson wandered over to the window and peered out at the crowd. A deafening buzzer sounded, followed by an even more deafening roar from the masses, and the game was underway. He looked back at House, his eyes glinting: "All right, I'm in," he said, and felt a charge of pure adrenalin course through him.

* * *

Chase squeezed past half the people in his row to get to his seat. Most of them gave him dirty looks, because not only had the game already started, but he also had with him several bulky souvenirs that bumped and poked people as he passed. He took his seat, storing flags, foam fingers, noise makers and other paraphernalia under his seat. A cheap, plastic pair of binoculars dangled from his neck, and he nearly spilled his beer all over them in his attempt to get comfortable.

Foreman shifted in his seat, trying his hardest to pretend he didn't know Chase. He'd been enjoying Chase's twenty-minute absence, using the time to flirt shamelessly with the dark-eyed brunette sitting next to him. She'd come with a date, but she was quick to tell him that it was a first date, and that it was not going well. Judging by the Viking-sized drunk sitting on the other side of her, shouting obscenities at anyone wearing a Bruins logo, he figured he'd have no problem convincing her to let him take her home after the game.

"What did I miss?" asked Chase.

Foreman lifted an eyebrow at the young woman next to him as if to say, 'I know how you feel', and turned his attention to Chase. "Game just started," he said. "No goals yet. Bruins have a power play. And what the hell did you do—buy the entire souvenir shop?"

"I have friends back home who love this stuff," said Chase with child-like glee. He pulled out his binoculars and put them to his eyes.

"We're six rows from the ice," said Foreman. "You don't need those."

"Did anyone ever tell you you have no sense of fun?" Chase replied, and continued to watch the game with his binoculars.

Foreman sighed and returned his attention to the brunette, thinking he'd better get her name soon, or he would lose his window of opportunity. Nothing was worse than waking up next to a woman and having no idea what to call her. The poor, unsuspecting woman smiled at him, relieved to have someone sober and mature to talk to.

Chase was having a blast. He'd watched hockey on TV, of course, but it was completely different being there in the thick of the action, as it were. He cheered when the crowd cheered, joined in with the chants, did the wave, and found that it was much more fun watching the people in the crowd than the game itself. With his binoculars, he'd caught sight of three separate couples making out. They tended to stick to the upper rafters, where the lighting was darker and the crowds thinner. There was some serious necking and groping going on up there.

Halfway through the first period, the Devils scored a goal and Chase got to his feet, cheering wildly with the rest of the fans. When he sat down again, he lost sight of where his favourite groping couple was sitting. He scanned the rafters desperately, because he was sure they'd be at it like bunnies any minute, and he didn't want to miss any of the action. His eye caught some movement higher up, in one of the boxes, and just out of curiosity, he trained his binoculars on the window. Half of it was covered in one of the most pathetic banners he'd ever seen, and it distracted him for a moment, until the movement caught his eye again and he re-focused the binoculars.

The lights in the box were dim, but from the stadium lighting, Chase could easily make out the two men standing at the window. His jaw came unhinged and he pounded Foreman on the arm, trying to get the other man's attention.

"Not _now_," Foreman hissed at him before smiling widely at his new date.

Chase ping-ponged his attention from Foreman to the box and back again, with an expression bordering on stupefaction. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing, but if Foreman was so intent on being such a kill-joy, he figured he didn't deserve to know about it. He brought his binoculars back up to the window, drawn to it like a rubber-necker to a crash site—hoping to see some carnage.

* * *

"Don't turn around," came House's gruff voice from directly behind him.

Wilson's entire body stiffened in response and it took all of his will power to obey House's command. He stood, hands steepled against the glass window, looking out at the crowded stadium. The fans' rhythmic chanting pulsed through his fingertips as if the entire building was somehow echoing his heartbeat back to him—charged and escalating in intensity. He could sense House behind him, could hear him moving around, and the curiosity was killing him.

"Uh-uh. No peeking," said House when Wilson's head turned just a fraction of an inch in his direction.

Wilson bit his lower lip and redirected his gaze back out the window. The lights, the noise, the people…just knowing that any one of them could look up at any moment… Hundreds of pairs of eyes—surely someone would notice.

It seemed to take an eternity, with Wilson growing desperate with anticipation, and by the time House finally touched him his cock was already hard and aching. He felt House's body press up against his back, warm and solid, leaning on him for support.

"Don't move," said House, his lips brushing against Wilson's ear.

Wilson groaned and felt his cock twitch in the tight confines of his jeans. He'd never considered himself to be an exhibitionist before, but as his jeans and underwear were yanked down to his knees, Wilson felt a powerful buzz. He couldn't help feeling a thrill at the thought that only a thin, painted bed sheet shielded him from countless onlookers. It was such a heady feeling that he knew if he didn't find a suitable distraction soon, fantasy number thirty-three would come to a premature end. He sucked in a breath and tried to concentrate on the game taking place on the ice below.

There was a huge roar from the crowd below as the Devils scored the first goal of the game, and before the crazed cheering subsided Wilson felt House's hand fisting him. He threw his head back, eyes squeezed tightly shut, soaking in the sensation.

"Open your eyes," House ordered softly. "Watch the game like nothing's happening."

Much easier said than done, thought Wilson, but he tried. He opened his eyes, brought his head back down to look out at the bright white rink and the tiny skating ants that speckled it. The game made no sense to him anymore; with House's fist pumping him, playing over the weeping tip of his cock, he might as well have been watching a foreign film with the subtitles turned off.

House took his hand away just as Wilson was starting to set a furious pace.

"Hey—what are you doing? Don't stop now!" Wilson complained.

"I'm giving you a penalty," said House.

"For what?"

"High sticking," House answered, making Wilson laugh despite the throbbing ache in his balls. "And don't even think of turning around or I'll make you sit out the rest of the game," House chastised as he caught Wilson peeking again.

Wilson pried his eyes away from House's twinkling gaze and forced himself to look out the window. There was a lot of rustling going on behind him, and he had a very good idea what House was up to. He shifted from foot to foot anxiously, finding it harder to stand still with every passing second.

House grinned at the back of Wilson's head, enjoying the fact that he had the power to make him squirm. He was taking his time; not because it was driving Wilson crazy—no, that was just a bonus—but because this part was going to be tricky. It took a bit of work to strip from the waist down and not loose his balance—and that was the easiest bit. He hadn't attempted anything so…strenuous…since the infarction, and he just hoped it was still feasible. He donned a condom as quickly as he could, and then dug out the tube of lube from his jacket pocket.

Wilson hissed as House squirted the cold liquid between his legs. "Fuck, House! Give a guy some warning!"

"You want a warning?" asked House innocently. "Okay, how about this?—I'm about to stick my dick so far up your ass it'll tickle your tonsils."

Wilson let out a chuckle that was eighty percent whimper and pressed his forehead against the glass, bracing himself.

* * *

Row six, centre ice—Foreman had abandoned hockey for a different kind of game, and he'd already scored. Viking drunk had picked one fight too many with a group of Bruins fans seated two rows away, and was escorted out of the building by security. Hot brunette, whose name was either Sherri or Cheryl, was relieved to have a new ride home and readily agreed to a date for Saturday night. And Chase got to see some serious carnage.

The binoculars had become a permanent fixture on Chase's face, and they were glued to a VIP box in the stadium's upper atmosphere. He'd long since given up watching the game, transfixed as he was by the sight of House and Wilson screwing. In front of God and everybody. Wilson rocked up against the glass of their booth in a steady, unmistakable rhythm, his face contorted in the throes of sheer bliss, hands flattened, gripping the window as House's hands slid up and down his arms.

When a deafening horn blast announced the end of the first period, House and Wilson disappeared from view, most likely to get a little more horizontal. Foreman made his excuses and left with the brunette, hoping to escape before Viking drunk returned. And Chase…he'd had enough hockey for one night. With a grin on his face and enough blackmail material to last a lifetime, Chase gathered up his souvenirs and headed off to hail a cab.

* * *

The next morning Cameron entered the conference room and thought she must have entered the Twilight Zone by mistake. Everyone was smiling. It was eerie—Children of the Corn eerie.

"I take it it was a good game?" she asked Foreman.

He shrugged back at her. "Don't know. I left early. You'll have to ask Chase."

Chase grinned broadly at her. "It was very entertaining. So much more fun than watching it on TV."

"Okaaay," said Cameron, and she turned to House, hoping that he, at least, would provide some gravity to the meeting. But he was just as annoyingly cheerful, sitting next to an equally happy Wilson. "Am I missing something? And don't tell me you had a really hot date last night with a hooker…"

The comment caught Chase off guard and he nearly snorted coffee out his nose. He shot a quick glance at House and Wilson, and noticed the oncologist had flushed a rosy pink. House's reaction was much more subtle, but it was there—he locked eyes with Chase. He knew that Chase knew, and those sharp blue eyes told him, in no uncertain terms, that he still held all the cards.

"A really _good_ hooker," House corrected her. "Let's not forget the 'really good' part."


End file.
